When I was an 18-year-old senior in high school, Kevin Spacey groped me.

It was 2008, and he was directing my father, Richard Dreyfuss, in a play called Complicit at the Old Vic in London. I’d come to visit for Christmas Break. It happened one night when the three of us were alone in Kevin’s apartment rehearsing my father’s lines.

An accusation that, given what we now know, has lost all shock value. Sure as the sun will rise, Kevin Spacey will grab unsuspecting young men by the weiner.

My father didn’t see, and I didn’t tell him about the incident for many years.

Instead, I spent the next nine years telling people the story at parties for laughs.

Telling the story as a joke ensured that this was a story I could own. If I could laugh at it, then surely I was not a victim.

That technique fell apart once I got to college and started telling the story to people in the theater world in New York. Often, they would respond by saying, “I know a guy that that happened to as well.”

With all these stories piling up, you'd think having your tackle fondled by Kevin Spacey was a rite of passage in Hollywood.

Equally unsurprising was the theater crowd's reaction to Dreyfuss' story. No shock. No disgust. Just an "oh yeah, Kevin's well known for copping feels of the naughty bits." Sounds to me like the creative community was perfectly willing to tolerate Kevin's not-so-secret crotch-grabbing hobby.

Who would've known that little Oscar statue was a license to rape. It seems if you have enough clout in Tinseltown, you can get away with just about anything. For a little while at least.